The Hetalia Hunger Games of Panem
by MegaOtaku777
Summary: There is a laps of time between the first two Hunger Games Katniss competes in. And the Hetalia characters star in it. What happens when countries who can't stand each other to begin with are supposed to kill each other?
1. Chapter 1: The Beginning

I wake up, a cold sweat dripping down my face._ 'Oh no…' _I think to myself, my stomach twisting in knots. _'The Reaping…'_ A small tear drops down my cheek as I sit up in bed, rubbing my arms to keep warm. _'And on my birthday, too…'_ A warm and comforting smell comes from the kitchen, and my stomach growls in hunger. I laugh, dragging my feet toward the food. Even when someone I know is about to be taken to be slaughtered, my stomach ignores it for the sake of food.

In the kitchen, sitting over a cauldron bubbling with cabbage soup, is my best friend and the man I live with, Germany. I first met him when I came to this District. I was running from the harsh living of District 12, where there was never enough food and the only food you could get was too expensive or too rotten to eat. We were both fleeing from there, and we bumped into each other in the forest. Literally.

I was turning around a tree, totally lost, when I felt another body impact with mine. Since I am kind of girly, even though I'm a guy, I screamed, and threw my arms up to protect myself. Instead of a beating from the Peace Keepers, I got a rough shove into the bushes. Germany was there, covering my mouth with his rough and dirt-covered hand, shushing me. A hover craft appeared from thin air, pausing for a second above our hiding place, and then moving on.

We became fast friends after that. He taught me how to hunt, and I showed him how to cook what he caught. We both live in District 11 now, where living's a little better, you're never short of work, and everyone besides the Peace Keepers are friendly. I've even seen Germany smile a few times over the years, which he hardly ever does. And never on Reapings.

Now, he is sitting stoically over the fire, mixing the morning's soup with a wooden spoon made from bamboo. His face turns up to me, and I can tall he didn't sleep at all during the night. Or the night before that. His eyelids are drooping, dark circles have begun to form underneath those blue eyes of his, and his posture is slumped. I can tell he's worried that one of us will be called today, due to all the Tesea we've had to order.

Germany almost never lets me buy any, because he knows that it's just one more chance for the Capitol to abduct me for their sick Games, but I go behind his back anyway. I figure that if he's going, I could masquerade as a woman and go with him, that way I could be beside my best friend when I die, or he dies.

But I try to banish these thoughts from my mind as I take my seat on the floor, directly across from the silent man. The pot bubbles and boils as my stomach growls impatiently again. "Well, let's get something into you, Italy," Germany says, laughing a little. But it's just the nerves and lack of sleep that make him chuckle.

"Only if you have some too," I say, crossing my arms over my shoulders. He's gone without food a few times, when it was scarce, and without my knowing. He knows it gets on my nerves, and thankfully, he doesn't seem to have the energy to argue. He silently pours the soup into two bowls, a little worse for the wear but not too bad. We eat in the silence of the morning, watching the sun rise over the far off horizon that can be seen over the plains of wheat.

"Are you going to try it again?" he asks me suddenly. I know what he means.

"Yes. If you're going, then I am too, Germany." For the past few Reapings, I've dressed like a girl. If Germany's name gets called, then I have a chance to get called. If I don't, then I can volunteer. Volunteering is almost unheard of, even by family and close friends. I don't see why, but it is. I mean, if I had the opportunity to go and die in Germany's place, I would take it in a heartbeat.

"You know I don't like it. What if I don't get called and you do?" He is staring at me in worry.

"Then you go one, living life as normal person, and go find a nice girl to settle down with. You are eighteen after all, and this will be your last Reaping. Your life won't be any different without me in it." I say this matter-of-factly, scraping the bottom of my bowl.

"That's not tr—" he starts, but the clanging of the large bell in the town square cuts him off.

Six o'clock in the morning. It's time to get ready. _'The big Reaping starts in an hour, and we don't want miss that action,' _I think to myself as I rise and start to dress.

Germany doesn't finish what he was saying, but downs the rest of the bowl, and starts to don his best clothes. They aren't much better than his normal garb; a pair of hardy, woven tan pants and a simple shift-like shirt.

I, on the other hand, get to slip on a blue dress that I save for such occasions. A bright green ribbon goes around the waist, and another ties up my short, red hair. A single curl escapes its confines, but that's come to be known as my trademark.

We both turn to study each other at the same time, sadness apparent on both of our faces. Suddenly, Germany does something he's never done to me before; he rushes up and envelopes me in a hug, his thick arms wrapping so far around my slim body that they touch the sides opposite.

"You don't have to do this for me…" he whispers in my ear.

"I'm not. I'm doing it for me. Work in the fields would be boring without you around," I joke. We both know that it isn't true. I would be devastated without him around, and we are both aware of that.

He releases me as fast as he grabbed me, and we both walk solemnly out the door. A slight breeze ruffles the skirt of my tattered dress, and I blush a little as I feel a breeze in an unnatural place.

We weave through the streets and rows of houses that circle the town square, almost like a circular field. The people around us, who are normally busting up with talk and chatter. Are suddenly quiet and depressed. Ever since that one Tribute died, Rue, everyone has had trouble smiling. I took over her position in the treetops, and I now signal the end of the day, but we all know it's not the same.

Before I even know it, we are in the square, two groups of chairs set up close to a wooden stage, and plenty of room is left in the back for loved ones who were too old to compete. I have no one to back me up, as does Germany, since we both came from a different District. But as soon as this Reaping is over, we can kick back and relax back there, watching with dread as another fresh lamb would be lead to the slaughter house.

We take our places in the rows of chairs, his on the boys' side, and me with the girls. Everyone knew my true gender, and they even teased me about dressing as a girl for the Reaping, but no one stopped me or reported me. I was thankful to them for that; if I was ever caught, they might send me to the Games against my will, or maybe even flog me, if they were feeling merciful.

I snap back to the present as a voice booms out over the speakers, "Good morning, District 11!" I see the speaker on stage, and my eyes widen with disgust. The man, France Bonnefoy, wear only a pair of dress shorts and a button-up shirt that is open. Coming from the Capitol, he is dressed up in the weirdest fashion. In his chin-length, blond hair, he has a few bits and bobbles, such as a bronze leaf here and a jewel there. His face looks like it was smashed into a bag of flour, it's so white.

"Welcome to this year's annual Reaping! You all know the rules, but I'll give them to you anyway. One girl and one boy will be chosen to…" I kind of sit in a daze, not really listening, as he repeats the same thing he has every year. He must have memorized it by now.

I turn my attention to the ones sitting behind him; one is Mayor Baldwin, who sits rigid in an uncomfortable suit his balding head already sweating, even though it's not hot out yet. Next to him are the two Tributes who have won in previous years, and the years that have passed don't appear to have been kind to them. One is a woman, and the other a man. The woman's long, blond hair is tether behind her in a matted mess by a single strip of rawhide, and her clothes are full of holes, as if she's worn the same thing every day. I recognize her as Ms. Hungary, who was able to win by her ferocity and whit. Both seem to have been drained from her.

The man next to her is Mr. Austria, who survived by surrounding himself with allies, who were half of the remaining tributes after the bloodbath, and then leading them off into a huge struggle with the other side and hiding while everyone died around him. His garb is as simple as Ms. Hungary's, but he just sits in his seat, his head in his hands as he rocks back and forth. I can't tell if he's nervous, crying, or suffering from a hangover. As far as I know, the few days surrounding a Reaping are the only ones when he drinks anything other than tea. From the small drops of water that leak from his hands, I think it's the middle choice.

"And may the odds be forever in your favor!" squeaks France as he flounces off to the slips of paper with the Reaping candidates on them. I think I hear him mumble something like, "I'm too pretty to be doing this."

I glance over at Germany; his hair is slicked back, like normal, but his cool and calm composure is out the window. He's sweating, and his eyes are wide with fright. His hands are clutching the seat he's on as if a sudden breeze will knock him clean off.

Even though the normal routine is to read out the girl's name first, France must mess up, because he reaches into the bucket with the boy's names. "And the lucky first tribute is…" France pauses both for dramatic effect, and so he can read the slip of paper.

'_Please, please don't let it be Germany…' _I pray silently, my hands clasped in my lap. _'Please, anyone but Germany…'_

"Germany Beilschmidt!" shouts out France.

My stomach drops, and my body freezes. Germany sits rigidly, his eyes wide in disbelief. He's managed to escape the Reaping so far. Why now? He slowly stands and makes his way to the stage while I'm still staring at his back. His footsteps are shaky and uncertain, and to a practiced eye, he's scared out of his mind. But to everyone else, it looks like he's taking this all in stride as he makes his way to France.

When Germany is lined up on stage, never breaking eye contact with me, France bounds over to the second bucket with the girls' names. As soon as France blurts out the second name, which I think is Seborga, I stand up and shout, "I volunteer!" Seborga doesn't even have time to stand up before I'm making my way to the stage.

I'm halfway doing this for Germany and myself, but I'm also doing this for her. Even though I would have volunteered even if it had been my worst enemy, I have known Seborga for a while. We have treetop duty together, and sometimes share jokes. Her family is tearing up in thankfulness as I take my place in front of France. He smells worse than he looks, with his heavy perfume and everything.

He looks at me, startled, as he asks, "And what's your name?"

I try to make my voice sounds a girly as possible as I say, "Italy Vargas, sir."

"And I that your sister over there, Italy?" he asks, pointing to Seborga who is still in shock.

"She and I are friends, but not sisters." I send a quick glance over to Germany, but France doesn't notice.

"Well, I'm sure he appreciates it," he says quickly, turning back to the cameras as if his beauty being plastered all over Panem is more important. "And there you have it, folks! Your District 11 Tributes!" He waves his hand toward us, showing us off to the world, expecting the rest of the District to clap loudly.

But no one does. Instead, they copy what Katniss did in the previous Hunger Games; they press the three middle fingers of their lefts hands to their lips, and then extend them toward us. Instead of being comforted by this, I am left scared witless.

I have just volunteered myself to get slaughtered for the enjoyment of the rest of the nation.


	2. Chapter 2: Are you ready to get killed?

Judging by the number of red lights that disappear from the cameras, I guess that the Capitol is no longer broadcasting, but France doesn't notice. He's still making seducing faces to the screens, even though multiple people are trying to tell him otherwise.

I start to giggle. He's the most hilarious thing since Haymitch fell off the stage! But the chuckle gets caught in my throat. My hands tremble beside me, clenched in fists and balling the blue fabric. My knees are shaking badly, but Germany seems even more scared than I am.

To District 11 and the rest of Panem, when they were watching, he's cool, collected, the most level-headed Tribute this year. But to me, who has been living with him for years, he's freaking out. Germany has never gotten scared, even when the hovercraft appeared above us in the forest. But now, his eyes are wide, the blue color showing clearly when you can normally only see the middle and not the whole thing. His pants legs are shaking so slightly that it could be the breeze, but I know it's his knees.

He's scared. For the first time, my friend, Germany Beilschmidt, is scared. For the longest time, he's been the one constant thing in my life. When I got whipped for stealing a small, burnt loaf of bread, he was there to comfort me. He's afraid of dying, of killing people, of being killed.

I know exactly how he feels.

Before I can reach over to comfort him, I am fenced in by a wall of soldiers. I bite down on my lips to keep from yelling Germany's name as we are marched toward the Mayor's Hall. I get the feeling that we're prisoners, and my breathing starts to speed up, but I remind myself that they're just there for our safety. I'm not very comforted, but it's as good as I can do.

The street is silent as we are led up the steps to the Mayor's office. There isn't much of a hall, seeing as most of our money is spent on food and seeds for the fields. It's a simple, one-story, wooden building that sits next to the town square. Ivy climbs up the walls, and it's almost crumbling in some areas, but we barely get enough money from the Capitol to grow crops, so it's not like the mayor can waste some on his own building and put himself before his townspeople. Though he probably would if he could.

When we get inside, I start to stare around. I've never been in the Hall before, so it's a new experience for me. It even helps to take away some of the nerves. Against the far wall, there are two very grubby chairs that look like they haven't been dusted or cleaned in at least two years. The walls are covered in depressing wallpaper that has faded yellow stripes mixed with strips that look more gray than the black they were originally. On the strips of yellow, there are prints of a plant that I recognize from the fields as wolfs bane.

Appropriate.

The only person who wasn't at the Reaping, the Mayor's secretary, is sitting at the only desk in the room, sending Germany and me sympathetic glances from behind her square glasses that sit on the bridge of her crooked nose.

The guards hurry Germany into the Mayor's office and me into the room next to it. I think it's the meeting room for the Mayor, when he doesn't feel like using his own office for that. He's the only one in this District that has that much money.

I startle as the guards break formation, hustling out of the room. The door slams, and I'm all alone. The walls are decorated the same as the lobby, and there's a long, see-through table with a vase of flowers in the center. I walk over to the crystal vase, reaching up and touching the flower petals. There's a blue flower I realize is called "bluebell" and another one I know is a rose. I've seen them around the fields and in the forest, but I've never gotten to stop and smell them. I lean down to them, pressing my face into the soft blossoms, and inhale. It smells like the woods, like harvest, and like what a home would smell like, with family and good meals every night.

I am swimming in my fantasy when the Mayor comes in. He catches me with my nose in the flowers. I flinch, expecting to get hit or something, seeing as keeping a single strand of grain in your pocket is considered a crime, but instead, the Mayor reaches past me, plucking a flower from the vase and placing it behind my ear and keeping that unruly curl in check. It's the bluebell flower, and in a minute, its gentle fragrance reaches my nose.

"Don't cry," he says gently. I reach up to my cheek, pulling back a damp hand. I hadn't realized. I blush, which I seem to be doing a lot lately but mainly around Germany, and pull back. The smell that rolls off of him smells like sweat mixed with liquor. It burns my nose. "Do you have any family here today?" he asks me, gesturing me to sit in one of the chairs around the table. I take my seat, and he sits across from me. The chair is comfortable, but I sink down into it so far that I am nearly chest-height to the table. I should be middle height.

"No," I answer. It's the truth.

"Where are they?" he presses on, leaning forward. I don't reply. Instead, I avert my gaze and try to look sad. I guess it works, because he drops the subject. "No friends?"

"Not really…" I can feel my cheeks heating up. "Only Germany."

Mayor Baldwin's eyes widen in shock. "So there's a possibility that you'll kill your friend, or be killed by him?" He seems appalled at the idea, but I don't see why; it happens every year in the Games. I just nod, not trusting myself to speak. After a few moments of silence, he rises, leaving me to the silence of the room.

I get off the chair, thankful not to feel like I'm sinking in a sea of fluff. I look down at my skirt, trying to pull it past my knees, when a thought hits me. _'What if they discover I'm a boy? Will they replace me with a girl from the District? Will it be Seborga, like it was supposed to be? Will they force me to go along in the Games, or will they take me out and flog me for defying the Capitol? What if it's too late in the Games to take me out? What will they do then? Hide my gender from the rest of Panem until I'm killed? Will they rig something in the arena to kill me?'_ These thoughts run around in circles in my mind, and my breathing quickens. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my hands start to lose their feeling. A voice reaches me suddenly through the wall, muffled and hazy, but definitely Germany's voice.

"Don't be afraid, Little Italy." He calls me the nickname he's used so many times before when I get stressed out. His tone is calming and reassuring, and my heart slows a little bit. I allow myself to imagine that Germany is sitting right behind me, the only thing separating our backs being a think piece of drywall. I close my eyes, the feeling in my hands starting to come back a bit.

"Thank you, Germany," I say back. I'm not sure if he hears me, because the wall squeaks and I think he rises. I hear the door in his room open and shut, and muffled voices filter in, though I can't understand them. My door opens, too, and I shoot to my feet, keeping my dress pressed down with my fists. Seborga pokes her head around the door, her ear-length hair flopping around her head. Her green eyes stare at me as I beckon her in. Once more, I sink into the chair and she does the same next to me.

"Italy, why did you do it?" she asks suddenly. Her eyes are downcast, as if suddenly interested in the tan, woven rugs that littler the floor.

"You're my friend, Seborga," I answer, not wanting to tell her the truth. She might think I'm gay, which I'm not. "And besides, no one would miss me if I didn't come back." I say this matter-of-factly, because I think it to be true. I don't have any family here, the family I have back in District 12 isn't close, and Germany is my only friend. None of the other people in District 11 are really close.

Seborga seems to think differently. "No, that's not true. I would miss you…" she trails off, blushing. "I mean, I don't have the end-of-the-day whistle down yet. Who will teach it to me?" she asks, her green eyes boring into my blue ones.

"I can right now, if you want." Seborga still looks agitated, but she agrees. I whistle the simple four-note tune, pausing so she can repeat it. It's done perfectly. I'm not sure if she was lying to me about it; she seems so comfortable with the tune. Before I can ask her about this, the door slams open, and two guards bustle in, escorting her out.

Before the door shuts, I hear her shout, "Goodbye, Italy!" Then the door stands between us again, and she's gone. I settle down next to the wall again, staring at the opposite end of the room.

'_Who chose the plant wolfs bane to decorate the room? I mean, isn't that just an omen of death? Just like the Hunger Games themselves?'_

I don't have time to mull this over, because the door opens once more, and the guards hurry in, accompanied by France. He struts into the room, as if he is showing off his body to the highest bidder. I get the feeling I won't like him so much, but I decide not to let his arrogance get in the way of my perception of him. But the smell that rolls off of him is stronger than Mayor Baldwin's. His scent is like expensive wine, which has a sour smell by itself, and some exotic perfume that sends my nose to reeling. I try not to fall over as he comes nearer to me.

"How are you faring, little one?" he asks, his cheeks flushed with drunkenness. "You ready to get killed?" I know he's joking, but I can't help but take personally. For my eighteenth birthday, I dress up as a girl, my best friend gets picked for the Hunger Games, I volunteer to get slaughtered for enjoyment, and I get a drunken man nearly falling over me.

Happy birthday to me.


	3. Chapter 3: Meet the Victors

Hello, people! Thank you to everyone who has read this story! And thank you to tttooohappy for reviewing. I really appreciate it. And please tell me if you think I'm not being faithful to the characters' personalities. I really hate it when I'm not. And by the way, could someone please explain what a "Mary Sue" is when dealing with fanfiction? Someone used that word, and I'm not sure what it means, and I can't contact them. Thank you! Anyway, enjoy!

The guards envelope me in their black circle again, and the lead me out of the Hall and into the street. Through the gapes in between the bodies, I see Germany being escorted out with me. I don't why they've chosen to keep us separate. Maybe they're afraid that, if kept together, we'll start conspiring against the Capitol. I think they're being paranoid, but I don't say anything. I get the feeling that, even if I did ask one of them, they wouldn't answer me anyway.

The sun is half-way to the center of the sky now, sending warm morning rays onto the town. Everyone is crowded around the train simply because it's the law. They wear depressed faces, much to my surprise. I figured that no one will miss us, that we are expendable, that we are just two extra bodies in the wheat fields. I guess not. I even see a few girls crying to see Germany go.

He's been blind to it, but I could see how all the girls looked at him with envy and admiration every time he hefted a bag of flour or plowed through the fields. Since we first got here, the girls have been trying to get close to him. But of course, Germany hasn't noticed. He just brushes them off and gets back to work. And he calls me oblivious.

I jump as the train whistle blows, and I stare at it in amazement. The only trains that ever come through the station are here to drop off supplies and pick up our harvest, and those ones are nothing to look at. They were basically great, ugly things with wooden crates pulled behind a huge coal-burning engine. This one is different. You can tell it comes from the Capitol by its smooth, polished hide that gleams in the morning sunlight. The front is shaped like a bullet, coming to a tip at the very center. Glass windows line its many cars, the train itself so long that it almost disappears into the distance. Unlike the trains that pass through here normally, this one doesn't spout black smoke. Instead, it seems to run off of electricity that I think comes from the tracks themselves.

The door to the train car isn't visible at first, but after a moment, a seam splits in the side, and a giant metal panel opens us to reveal the inside. Mr. Austria and Ms. Hungary, the two Victors, are standing in the doorway, trying their best to smile for the crowd and wave enthusiastically. Though happy faces are what the rest of District 11 sees, I can only see grimaces and arms that look like they're dead and just flapping in the wind. I feel sorry for the two of them; just what kind of horrors did they see in the Games that transformed them from helpful workers to people with no life in their eyes?

I don't have time to dwell on this, for the men around both me and Germany step quickly up to the train's platform, releasing us just outside the door. I stumble a bit, my sandal getting caught on the little seam between the platform and the platform jutting out from the train. Germany catches me, lifts me upright, and then releases me just as quickly. I can see what he's thinking; if we look like we're in love with each other, it won't work out for us like it did for Katniss and Peeta. The other Tributes will cut us down first because we look weak.

France comes up to us from behind, spinning us both around and pointing out to the crowd, whispering in our ears to smile and wave. For a moment, I try to forget what kind of situation we're in, and give my best heart-felt smile. Germany, on the other hand, doesn't do so well. Sure, the corners of his mouth go us, and his hand flops in the air, but sweat starts to roll down his face and his lips are twitching with the effort. I giggle softly, but then the present rushes back to me, and I fall silent.

France tugs us both into the confines of the train car, and the door seals, hissing as the last bit of sunlight disappears from the corners, and the walls become seamless once more. I rush over to the chair to my left that sits in front of a window, crying a bit as the only real home I've ever known vanishes in a whirl of color, everyone's face blending together as the train pulls away immediately. In seconds, you can't see the town anymore, just the woods flashing by. I turn, flopping down into the chair I'd had my knees on. I scrub away the tears, trying to look brave and strong. From the pitying looks that France and Germany give me, it doesn't work. I think I just look pathetic.

"Well, that was fun," France says, turning to the window. The scenery blurs by in a mix of green, blue, and brown, looking like some sort of camouflaged painting. However, judging by the way that France is turning and fixing some of the bronze leave sin his hair, I don't think he's admiring nature. It's more plausible to think he's admiring himself.

Ms. Hungary walks into the train car, jumping at the clicking noise as the door automatically slides closed behind her. Her auburn hair streams down to her shoulder sin unkempt clumps. Her face is pale and ragged, as if she hasn't been eating or sleeping for a while. Her clothes are simple, and not at all what'd you'd expect from a Victor who has access to anything at all. Her dress is plain and brown, right from the bodice to the hem, which brushed the floor. The shoes on her feet look like they are made of wood, clunking against the floor of the train with every step. "What are your names?" she asks, glancing around nervously. From what I can remember, she was chosen as a Tribute just the year before last, so she couldn't be more than twenty years old. The memories of the Games must still be very vivid for her, if she can't even remember our names. It couldn't have been a half an hour since our names were called out, and she still couldn't recall them. I felt sorry for her.

Germany walks up to her, his back straight and his face blank, and takes her hand. "I am Germany Beilschmidt, Ms. Hungary." He can only call her by her first name, since none of us can remember her last. Even around the District, she's only known as either "Ms. Hungary" or "Ms. Victor".

Ms. Hungary seems distracted, because she shakes his hand but keeps glancing around the train car as if someone might jump out at any moment. "Good for you…" An odd answer, but I know why. She's exhausted both mentally and physically. I can see traces of insanity resting in her eyes, just barely covered by fatigue from restless nights.

I don't know why, but I've always been able to read people very well. I can tell when people are lying, telling the truth, or are smiling but crying inside. But even though I can read Germany like an open book, it took me years to do that, and some things I still can't see. Now, for instance, he feels a small pang of sympathy for Ms. Hungary, but the main stream of his thoughts is on the Hunger Games.

"And as for you?" she asks me, wringing her hands until the wrists are raw.

I stand, dust off my skirt and try to look girly, and take her hand, responding in a high voice, "My name is Italy Vargas. It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Hungary." I'm sure I look like a train wreck (no pun intended) with the tears and all, but Ms. Hungary seems cheered a bit by my smile.

"It's very nice to meet you, Italy." She tried her best at a smile, and almost succeeds. Maybe this trip won't be so bad. You know, until we get to the killing and dying part of the voyage.

Just as I sit back down, Mr. Austria comes in next, looking a little better than Ms. Hungary. He brushed his hair back so that it clings tight against his scalp, looking more like gel than hair. A pair of rectangular glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, and I notice for the first time that he has a mole beside his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, and I guess that it isn't tea in the cup that's firmly held in his gloved hand. His clothes are nothing but lace and satin ruffles, from the hem of his jacket to the bottoms of his pants, which come down just below the knee. His shoes have tongues that stick straight up, not appearing to be very comfortable by the way he keeps adjusting from foot to foot whenever he stands in one place for very long. For some reason, he keeps glancing over at me, seemingly fascinated with how I look.

"So you are the new Tributes for this year?" he asks, as if we are just another number; another statistic; another face soon to be forgotten. He crosses his arms over his poofy chest, staring at us as if he is judging the size of a cut of beef. I notice Germany tense up under his gaze, his hands clenching and unclenching when Mr. Austria's gaze flits over to me. I've never had an encounter with someone who is drunk, but I suddenly decide that I don't like people like that. "Do you at least know how to fight a decent fight?" I can hear mocking in his tone, and it kind of stings. I think he was chosen as a Tribute eight years ago, so I can understand why he's rude to us. He's had to coach seven other Tributes, and only one has been able to come home alive. It's not that he hates us or doesn't believe in us; he's trying not to get attached, so he won't have to grieve over us when we die.

Notice I don't say "if".

"I can fight," Germany says, straightening up. He flexes his muscles a bit, to show off what he could do, but it doesn't impress Mr. Austria.

"And what about you, young lady?"

It takes me a while to figure out that he's addressing me. I straighten up as well, trying to puff out my chest to make it look like I _have_ one. "Um…I don't fight, but I can hunt and cook." I try to list off any possible traits that might be helpful, but those are the only things I can come up with.

Germany steps in on my behalf. "Don't sell yourself short, Italy. H—She can dress a wound very well. She's saved my life a couple times before," he exaggerates. I've only cleaned up a scratch he had on his leg before when he got attacked by a wild boar. Sure, there was puss and infection was about to set in, and all the other doctors said they weren't willing to take him in, but I got it clean in time. Nothing major. But I am grateful he remembers who I'm trying to be. If he had said "he" instead of "she", I'd be kicked off the train in a heartbeat. But the way he said it, it sounded like he was sighing before he started talking. I send him an appreciative look.

"Well cooking and flexing muscles aren't going to do you any good in the Arena. I've seen some of your competition, and they are nothing to be laughed at. Then again, we've only visited District 12 so far. Everyone else is soon to come." He says this while taking another swig of his alcohol.

"Wait, so you've seen them? How? The Tributes aren't supposed to be together until they are presented to Panem, aren't they?" The questions flow from my mouth quicker than I can stop them. I turn red, my face turning to the floor in embarrassment.

Mr. Austria smirks at me. "Well, an inquisitive nature can either help you or hurt you in the arena. Let's just hope it helps you. And yes, I have seen them. For some reason, the Capitol decided to take one train around Panem, and put every Tribute in the same train. I don't know why, so don't ask me." Mr. Austria leans against the rocking side of the train wall, bringing his cup to his lips once again. A small bit of beer slides down his chin, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"So the Tribute from District 12 are on this train. Are we allowed to go see them?" Germany asks. I can see he's getting a little tired of Mr. Austria's attitude.

Mr. Austria just looks at him like he's stupid. "Of course not. Victors and Tributes alike are supposed to stay in their own train cars. However, they are allowed to look out the windows at the Tributes and Districts as we pass them. Any more questions?" I am silently glaring at Mr. Austria, not only for the way he is talking to everyone like they're too young to understand, but also because of how he addresses Germany. He just seems pompous to me, but I have a feeling it's the beer. I hope he'll get better as the days go along.

Mr. Austria turns suddenly, opening the train car door and stepping through. Ms. Hungary is right behind, trailing after her mentor like a lost dog. A small gust of wind bursts into the car as the two adults disappear, and vanishes as soon as they are gone. I turn to face Germany, and he looks wore out. His shoulders are slumped, and his hands are hanging down by his sides. His hair is mussed up, not the slick almost helmet-like style it used to be. He drags his feet to the chair beside mine, plopping into it. He sighs heavily, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and first finger.

"Tired?" I ask. He nods his head for a reply, leaning against the window. He is soon asleep, gentle snores coming from his mouth. I smile a little, trying not to focus on what will come in a few hours; meeting the other Tributes, getting shown off the Panem, trying to hide my gender. I'm just happy to be with my best friend, confident that he will make it out of this thing alive.

I hope.


	4. Chapter 4: Is the secret revealed?

_I'm running through a forest, the green swirling around me in a confusing spiral of colors. My breath comes in short gasps as I crash through the wilderness, sure that something is chasing me, but not sure of what it is. I stumble and fall, my hands splitting open and bleeding as they meet the twig-covered ground. I whimper as I stand, once more continuing my panic-stricken flight through the woods._

_I suddenly break through the trees, coming into a sun-lit clearing. I gasp as I take in the scene. People, most of which I don't recognize, are lying on the ground, covered in blood, arrows sticking out of some, and spears sprouting from others. And the odd thing is that they are all wearing the same outfit. I count twenty-two bodies in all, every single pair of dead, clouded eye staring right at me. But that's not what starts me crying. Right at my feet, in a black suit with red stripes down the sides, is Germany. He is face-up, blood dripping from his mouth and a knife-wound across his throat. His blue eyes now stare lifelessly at me, and that mouth no longer smirks. I sob, dropping to my knees and cradling his head in my hands. Tears spill by the hundreds as I cry over my only friend._

_I stop suddenly, feeling an odd feeling in my chest. I look down, finding a sword sticking from it. I turn around, finding a girl with a flat chest and gray hair standing over me, sneering at me. My mouth hangs open as I stare at her blood-covered body, and I realize that she's the one who killed Germany. I fall to the ground beside my only friend, the world going black. The last thing I see is the girl's face leering on front of mine. But, just before I black out, her face starts to change, her gray locks turning golden, and the smirk transforming into a grin of pleasure…_

I slowly open my eyes, letting out a scream of surprise. France's face looms above me, his mouth open in a wide smile. I can smell the perfume and wine rolling off of him. His face is still that flour-like whiteness, but this time he's added swirls and designs of green that loop around his eyes, coming to a stop at the corners of his mouth. It looks like he's eating some type of synthetic vine. His face reminds me too much of the dream. I clench the seat I'm in, my eyes wide with fear, my mind still half in the dream. France backs off a little, staring at me in confusion.

Before he can open his mouth, Germany leaps up, putting his body between the man and me. Germany looks to be in a half-sleep state still, and he rubs his eyes groggily. He looks around him, a confused look on his face. "What's going on?" he asks.

France is on the floor, the surprise of Germany sending him sprawling backwards. "W-we're almost to the Capitol," he stutters, backing up towards the door. I almost giggle; he reminds me of a terrified frog. He rushes out the door, yelling to behind him, "I'll send the stylists in shortly!" and "Don't even think about touching my face, you brute!"

I giggle again, which brings Germany's attention to me. He looks a little sleep-deprived, but better than he did this morning. His tunic and pants are mussed up a bit, but they were built to by sturdy. An afternoon of emotional turmoil and horror has no effect on them. I sigh softly, my arms relaxing and my body kind of melting into the plush chair cushion. "What was that about?" Germany asks me, flopping into the chair beside me.

I'm not sure if he realizes, but ever since we started living with each other, every single time I had a bad dream, Germany shot up immediately, trying to protect me from unseen terrors. Afterwards, I'd convince him that it was just a dream, coax him back into sleep, and he'd wake up the next morning with no memory of what happened.

"It's nothing, Germany. Just a bad dream. I accidentally screamed as France tried to wake me up, and I startled him. You did more, though," I joke. I smooth down the skirt of my dress, which has risen a little too high for my taste. The blur fabric has gotten a little dirty over the past few, hectic hours, and I'm worried that someone will notice what I'm trying to hide.

He smiles a bit, and I can't decide if he's smiling at me or what I said, but I can see something in his face. Something's wrong. I'm about to ask what it is, but before I can open my mouth, the door nearly crashes inwards, and three people come filing in. I have to choke down laughter, and even then, a small noise escapes.

The first one to come in is relatively normal-looking at a first glance. He is a man that stands at least a head taller than I do. He's about level with Germany. I can see small, defined muscles beneath his loose, white shirt that hangs limply from his square shoulders. His head is covered in brown locks that flow down to his ear, and his eyes are half-closed, so he looks like he's walking around half-asleep. But that's where he stops looking human. In his head are cat ears that twitch at every sound, as if they work. I don't doubt that they do. An orange tail swishes about his legs, nearly reaching the floor as it curls up at the very bottom. He looks like a regal tiger, with the way that cat whiskers protrude from his high cheeks and he has to look down at everyone to see them.

The one to her left is a smaller man, who is a little plump, but no less dressed-up. It looks like his whole body has been doused in gold paint, and his skin is dyed a ridiculous, deep purple color. Gold tattoos line his facial features, looking like some ancient, luxurious tapestry you might find in pictures of Ancient Egypt. His clothes don't fall short of weird, either. They are a vibrant lime green, looking like his entire body save his skin is doused in some sort of black light.

Another face pops out from behind the tall cat-man. It's a small girl, with a ribbon tied in her short, yellow hair, Big, green eyes stare up at me and Germany in fascination, probably fixated by our lack of decoration. Her slim body is covered in a magenta dress that brushes her knees, and her white socks climb up to the bottom hem of her robe.

"Good afternoon," the cat-man greets us, holding out a furry paw. I reach for it hesitantly, and then smile. It feels like my hand is clutching a soft, down pillow. Germany is more reluctant, and he's a little freaked out by the mutation our stylist has put himself through. "My name is Greece. And you are…" He trails off, either dozing while he stands, or searching for our names. His eyes snap open suddenly, and I notice that the pupils in his eyes aren't circular. They're slitted, like a cat's. "Ah, now I remember. Italy and Germany, huh? Nice to meet you." He gives us a friendly smile which looks like a sleepy one.

"Nice to meet you, too," I say, grinning at the strange man.

The silence stretches out for a moment, but is broken by the small girl. "Um, Mr. Greece? The Tributes have the Parade here in about two hours. They need to start getting ready." The girl blushes as she speaks, frighteningly timid, but I sense some hidden strength lying beneath her gentle face and golden locks.

"You're right, Lichtenstein. Well, let's get cracking. Germania, you take Germany. Lili and I will take Italy." Without another word, both Germany and I are pushed in separate directions out of the train car, and led into different sections of the train. It's probably because they want to keep the males and females apart, but I still get skittish without Germany around. I find my breathing quickening, and my eyes dart around for an escape route. But I don't have to worry. Greece's paws are like a comforting blanket around my shoulders, and Lichtenstein has such a tight grip on my hand that, even if someone did want to take me away for being a boy, they'd have a hard time.

The door clicks shut behind us, and I find myself almost gagging on all the scents and perfumes, but I still stare around me in wonder. As long as I've been alive, I've never seen anything like this. The train car looks about twice as small as it probably is, but that's because of all the equipment. Against the right wall, there is nothing but a giant barrier of glass. A dark blue curtain hands from a rod, ready to be closed for privacy. On the opposite wall sits a huge make-up station, complete with power brushes, various and ridiculous shades of lipstick, and mascara rods that are large enough so that they look like they could be used as weapons in the Games. A suffocating aroma fills the air, and I have to shield my eyes. The light from the make-up booth glints harshly against the pink of lined up dress-bags. I dread to think that anything concealed in those hanging sheets are any shade of cherry or gold.

Greece hurries me to the make-up stand, where he sits me down and starts immediately on my face. He layers on some creamy stuff on my face, his body blocking the mirror so I can't see my reflection. I close my eyes, imagining I am back home, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, listening to Germany talk about his life in District 10.

He was raised around livestock and animals, so it's easy to see why he's not comfortable around anyone. The thing he likes most is to be outside. He's told me before that he hasn't felt anything like the breeze in his face, the sun on his arms, bare from the sleeveless shirt he always wears. I've even seen a deer get close to him while he sat motionless in a field full of flowers. Unfortunately, when food comes our way, we take it. The poor thing didn't stand a chance against Germany. Still, it was kind of fascinating to watch the animal interact with a man who scowls in public and only smiles for me, his friend.

As Lichtenstein pulls at my hair with a brush and Greece powders my face with a ridiculous amount of make-up, I think and relive every good time I've ever had. Soon, the pain and discomfort disappear as I'm lost in memories of times long-forgotten, times I can never go back to, now that I'm in the Games. In District 12, I recall playing with my brother. Even though we looked nothing alike, we were each others' closest friend. His favorite thing to do was go out into the fields behind our home and play in the sparse grass. I always warned him what the Peace Keepers would do if they caught him, that ever since Darius had been removed the punishments had gotten worse, but there was no way that I could deny him happiness. We would sneak out of the house, shimmy under the barbed wire of the "electrified" fence, and bask in the sun. I still remember how his adorable hat, the blue and white one he wore every single day, would fly off his head when he ran into the wind that occasionally swept through the meadow.

I cringe as I recall how he pleaded with me to take him away, to escape with him. I promised that I would come back for him, but the first trip was too dangerous, and that if he got caught, the Capitol would kill him, or kill me and make him watch, and then dispose of him. I start to tear up as I remember his smiling face that waited for me every day after school…my little S— "Wake up!" Greece calls, snapping me out of my memory reel. I sit rigid in confusion, my eyes wide as I see a strange girl sitting across from me.

Her face is light, but not so pale as to be from the Capitol. Her shoulder-length red hair flows to her shoulders and her brown eyes look wide and beautiful, standing out from her face. Make-up adorns her eyelids, a blue hue decorating them so it looks like her eyes are even wider. Her high cheek bones are brushed with a light blush. She's so pretty. But when Greece comes up behind me and puts his hand on her shoulder…I realize that it's me. I'm the girl in the mirror.

"You like it?" he asks me, a lazy smile on his face. I just nod, wondering how on earth he pulled it off. He's transformed me from a feminine boy to a beautiful girl in under an hour. I stare at him, wondering where he learned to do this.

Greece suddenly puts his hands on Lichtenstein's shoulders, pushing her out of the train car. The last I see of her is a maroon dress flapping in the wind of the train that disappears as the door shuts behind her. Greece turns toward me, his orange cat tail twitching in anticipation of showing me the designs he made. I think. Without a word to me, he rushes over to the rack of hanging dress-bags, unzipping one and coming out with something that leaves me speechless.

The dress in his hands looks like something out of a fairytale to me. Most people wouldn't think so, but I've never seen anything quite like it. It's quite a simple dress; no sleeves or straps, and it looks like it would reach down to about just above my ankles. The expanse of the fabric looks like its woven out of wheat; the intricate criss-cross pattern races up and down the length of the dress in frantic zigzags. The top of the dress, where the fabric ends, is laced with the frilly tops of wheat stalks, giving the impression that the wearer would look like she's coming out of a wheat field herself; some form of primeval and kind goddess.

I stop staring, closing my mouth instantly. Greece quietly laughs as he comes forward, pushing the gown toward me with his paws. I suddenly become worried. _'What if he finds out? Is he going to try and dress me himself? I know that all the other Tributes had stylists that did that…what will I do!' _I thrust my hands out forward, as if to stop Greece's approach. It's a pretty weak attempt; I'm not physically built, and I'm too afraid to fight much. But I still have to do anything possible to keep anyone who might discover me at bay. It seems to work. Greece just stares at me quizzically, his cat ears twitching in confusion.

"Can I…put the dress on myself?" I ask, blushing a bit.

He gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, little one, but I'm afraid not. I didn't have your measurements before I made the dress, so I need to check and make any adjustments needed." I protest some more, but Greece just takes it as a sign of me being a bashful teenage girl, desperate to keep her private parts away from any prying eyes.

In a few moments, he'll know I'm a bashful teenage boy, desperate to keep his secret away from any blabbering mouths.

What am I going to do!


	5. Chapter 5: Brothers

Important! Please read! I think I may have come up with a better title! I mean, "The Hetalia Hunger Games of Panem" sounds generic. So, I decided to change the name. Maybe.

The name I thought of is, drum-roll please, "To Kill a Mockingjay".

If you like it than the one that is in place now, please tell me, that way I can change it. I hope you like it! Enjoy!

Instead of fighting him off and explaining the situation, hoping he won't turn me in, I break down, sinking to the ground and balling into my hands. I tremble with the tears and fright. '_If he discovers me, then I'm doomed! I can't be with Germany, I'll be sent back home if they even let me live, Germany might die and I won't have a chance to say a final goodbye, I'll never see Germany again…' _The fears tear at my mind as they circulate in a tireless loop in my head. The tattered blue dress I still have on is now stained a darker color from all the tears I'm spilling.

Greece's fuzzy paw lands gently on my head. I look up into his comforting face, finding a worried and confused expression there. "What's wrong?" he asks, bending down beside me, the dress draped over one of his knees.

Something hits me then and there. I'm going to have to have someone on my side. _'I can't keep my gender a secret for long. It's bound to come out if Germany and I are the only ones fighting to keep me here. Not to mention the fact that the stylists have free-reign of my body, clothed or not. Mr. Greece is going to find out sooner or later. It might as well be now.' _"There is something I need to tell you…" I begin. I have no idea why on earth I decide to trust him, but I do. Unfortunately, while I'm explaining the situation, it all comes out in a rush.

"I'm really a boy I'm just disguised as a girl because Germany is my best friend and I wanted to be in the Hunger Games with him because I couldn't bear it if he died alone and I figured that if I went with him he'd be a little safer because I'd be there at least to help him fight so please don't make me go away I don't want to leave Germany—"

A fuzzy paw clamps over my mouth, forcing me to pause. "Whoa there, little kitten. Not so fast; I can't understand you. Now, start from the beginning. And go slow." His paw lifts from my mouth, giving me a moment to breath. Several times I have to stop myself, reminding my tongue to go slowly.

"I'm not a girl. I'm really a boy. Back in District 11, Germany is my only friend. And for years, I was always scared that Germany's name would be picked for the Reaping. So every year, I would put on my one dress and put my name in the girls' Reaping basket. I figured that if he went, I would go too. And if I went and he didn't, then he wouldn't be any worse off. But this year, his name was drawn. Of course, I volunteered, but I didn't even think about what it would be like, trying to hide my gender. Germany always says I act before I think… Anyway, I beg you Mr. Greece. Don't send me back. It's not the death penalty I'm worried about, or the criticism or anything like that. I'm scared that Germany will die in the Arena without anyone to call a friend. If you think I should die for this, then let me die in the Arena. But please, don't do this to Germany. I'm his only friend, too."

Tears pour silently out of my eyes as the silence stretches on, Mr. Greece only staring at me with something that could be shock, it could be wonder, and it could be pity. I plead with my eyes for him to say yes, for him to help me, but as the silence stretches on, I don't hear him say anything. I only hear the sounds of our breathing, my tears hitting the metallic bottom of the train car, and the train streaking by Panem outside.

Suddenly, he stands up, bringing the flowing gown with him. He seems to dig around in one of the drawers in the make-up stand, coming out with three pieces of rubber. He sets to stitching them into the fabric, a serious look replacing the care-free one he had on just minutes before. "Well, this does change things, doesn't it?" he mumbles, his hand going into the dress and coming back out again with the needle countless times. I can only sit there in anxiety and confusion. Mr. Greece hasn't made any move to turn me in. In fact, he seems more worried about the dress!

I think just a few minutes have passed, but to me it feels like hours. Of sitting on the floor, my hands curled into fists and my stomach in knots. Without warning, he puts his needle on the table, ties off a knot in the fabric, and turns to me. His eyes rake over my body, and if judging something like measurements. Then he smiles, bringing up the dress for me to see. The chest of the gown juts out now of its own doing as do the hips. _'So that's what the rubber was for…But what is it supposed to do?'_

Mr. Greece must read my mind. "I've added padding the breast and butt. It should help hide any sign that you're a boy, at least until we can get a proper fix in place. No, what do you say we stand up, huh? Stop those tears?" He lends me his paw to grasp, and I shakily stand, the tears almost starting afresh. Finally, someone who cares enough to fight for me! Without thinking, like always, I rush up and grab Mr. Greece around the middle, saying "thank you, thank you," over and over into his waist. He pats my head, and I think I hear him chuckle softly. He pushes me away, hands me the dress, and leaves the train car without another word.

I thank God, incredibly grateful that Mr. Greece understood; that he didn't turn me in. As I slip on the dress, I'm surprised at how perfectly it fits. He didn't even take my measurements, but the fabric clings in all the right places, making my waist look tiny and my hips and chest larger. After I slip on the beautiful garment, I study my reflection. If I hadn't known the person in the mirror, I would think that she was a beautiful, young girl with a small chest, just big enough to be barely noticeable. She looks strong; a force to be reckoned with in the Arena. I can't believe that Mr. Greece has managed to pull it off.

I actually look like a girl.

I hear a brief knock on the door and in steps France, his arms thrown wide and gesturing widely to the contents of the train car, as if it's some spectacular museum. A camera crew files in behind, their black mechanisms on their shoulders. They are dressed as ridiculously as France is; some of them have weirdly-dyed skin, and when they stand in order to the side of the car, they look like a human rainbow. Their hair is standing up on end with little streaks of gold lacing their locks, so that when they gaze around the car in amazement, it looks like what they see literally shocks them. They stand against the glass window wall, and I notice that the train has stopped. I can't see out of the window, but I don't know if it's from some curtains being drawn or the train having entered a dark place.

I stifle a giggle as Mr. France loops his arm around my shoulders, grinning at me. "Well, don't you just look spectacular!" he gushes, putting me at arm's length to get a better view of me. I think I see his eyes linger at the fake breasts, and I'm afraid he knows, but it might just be a trick of the light, because he quickly averts his gaze to my eyes. "It's time to get going. The Parade starts in about," he checks his watch which gleams with gold and jewels, "thirty minutes. We've got to get you out of here!" He pushes me to the door, the camera crew broken out of their trance and following my every step. Instead of leaving the train car, a door opens in the glass wall, the seams appearing form nowhere. I shield my eyes as a blinding light bursts into the small train car. When my eyes adjust, I have to catch my breath.

I'm looking at a large room, the walls a smooth kind of white stone that has flecks of black swirls in it. From my time in District 12, I think it's marble. A horde of electric lights hang from the ceiling, some encased in bulbs of blue, some in red, and other in different colors, giving the place a feeling of another world. And you would almost think it is, by the look of everyone else in the cavern. All the other tributes are here, and they are all in costume, with their make-up on and everything. Make-up brushes fly everywhere, and the air is choked with the heavy scents of perfume and powder. I'm trying not to gag on the stench when France's hand appears on my shoulder.

"Listen, kid," he says lowly, "the Gamemakers have decided that neither I nor the two Victors can give you advice. We're not allowed to discuss anything with you, besides where to go and when and what to eat, things like that. They tell everyone it's because they want to people of Panem to be able to see the Tribute's true personality, but we all know that's not true. They just don't want us scheming with you to take over the Capitol, which they suspect Haymitch and Katniss of doing.

"Normally I wouldn't be doing something like this for someone like you, but I'll make an exception." He straightens up, smiling coyly at me. "You be on your best behavior now, you got that?" France asks. It would look like he was just giving me friendly advice to anyone else. I nod, not capable of doing anything else. France nods back, disappearing into the crowd.

Before I can go off in search of Germany, a soft paw lands on my head. I look up to see Mr. Greece staring down at me with Lichtenstein by his side. "Touch-ups," is the only explanation he gives me as he takes my hair, which is still down to my shoulders, in his hands. He yanks and tugs this way and that, and it takes all I have not to squeal in pain. He probably doesn't realize how rough he can be. Not to mention that my head is tender, especially around my curl.

When both he and Lichtenstein are finished, the small girl hands me a hand mirror. I take it, inspecting my hair. It's rather simple and plain at first glance, but once you really look at it, the design is more intricate than I could have imagined. Some of my hair extensions fall to my shoulders, but the part that would be the bangs is looped behind my ears, keeping it out of my face. But, as I look closer, I notice that the little strands that are pulled back are knotted into intricate braids. I've seen this kind of design on television, in Katniss's braid. My trademark curl is still free, bouncing away beside my face. And tucked in the fake locks is a small, ornamental bird with black and white wings. It looks like it's made of silver and onyx. I look at Mr. Greece confusedly. He just shrugs. "Mockingjays are in," is his only explanation. He grabs Lichtenstein, hauling her over to a crowded corner with the other stylists.

Immediately, I try to go in search of Germany. But, of course, I can't. Instead, my way is blocked by a Tribute. He's a tall man, at least two or three heads taller than me. Around his slim neck rests a knitted scarf or gray wool. The ends come down to about his chest. I shudder involuntarily. His thin lips are stretched into a smile, but it doesn't go anywhere near his eyes. Instead, I get the impression that he wants to kill everyone here.

His hand reaches out to me as he speaks. "Hello there. My name is Russia. Who might you be?"

I gulp nervously, my clammy hand extending to meet his thick one. "My name is Italy," I say, my voice shaking a bit. The only person I've seen who is as big as Russia would be Germany, and even my blonde friend doesn't really compare.

"It's nice to meet you, Italy. I come from District 9."

"11," I reply, trying to avoid his purple eyes. They unsettle me, and my knees are starting to shake a bit.

"Where is the boy Tribute from your District?" he asks, once more flashing me a sadistic grin.

"I was actually looking for him. If you'll excuse me…" I gently push past him, trying to be polite about it, but failing miserably. I think he tries to call me back, but I'm too far away and the crowd is far too noisy. I scan the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of Germany, but I'm too short. Instead, I make my way to the end of the line of chariots, sidling up beside the one with the number 11 on it. Two horses are in front, both a chestnut sort of color. One of them has a white stripe on the muzzle, the other a black patch on its front right knee. They both regard me strangely, as if gauging whether or not I'm their friend. I lift up my hand to the one with the white stripe, letting its nose bump gently against my palm.

I'm startled when I feel a hand land on my shoulder, pulling me away from the horse. I turn to see a girl about my age, but her hair is gray like Russia's. She has a flat chest and a slightly familiar face, though I don't know where I would know her from. She doesn't give me time to think it over, for she leans into my face, hissing, "I saw you get close to Brother Russia. Don't even think about getting any ideas or I'll take you down." With that, she spins, stalking away towards her brother. She doesn't even give me time to say that I wasn't doing anything.

But, once again, I don't have time to think about her for long. In the trail that the girl makes through the crowd, a small boy steps into view. He's wearing a suit that almost looks like he's on fire, so I think he's from District 12. He looks to be about twelve, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. A blue cap with a white ribbon hangs down from his head, bounding and flopping as he moves cheerily though the crowd, smiling at everyone he sees. He doesn't look like the typical person from the Seam, but I know he is. Day after day, I used to go outside and play with him, picking up that same hat every time it fell to the ground…

I start running towards him, desperate to reach him before the mass of people converges again and blocks him off. His back is turned, but when he hears me running, he turns, his eyes widening in shock as he recognizes me. It's not a surprise that he didn't know I'm here, and vise versa. None of the tributes got to see the Reapings in other Districts, so we don't know who we're up against. But, even as I'm running towards him, my hearts cries out that they chose my brother to compete.

"Sealand!" I cry, rushing towards him and engulfing him in my arms. He clutches e back, still rigid with disbelief. "My brother…" I mumble into his hair as I hold the person I haven't seen in years.

~

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~  
>And the plot thickens! Dun-dun-dun! I hope you enjoyed it!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6: Snow

_It's kind of weird, because I keep forgetting that Italy is a boy. I keep thinking that I'm writing about him as a girl. I just hope I remember to keep him a male! And I hope you enjoy the newest chapter!_

Immediately, we are swarmed by curious Tributes and reporters who keep asking us questions about our relationship. And probably my sanity. But before Sealand can pull away, I whisper frantically into his ear, "Listen, it's me, Italy. I'll explain everything later, but you must treat me like a girl. Trust me, okay?" I silently beg him to understand.

He mumbles back, "How can I be sure it's you?" his voice cracks a bit.

"Look into the sky, Sea. Doesn't that cloud look like a rabbit?" I know it sounds like a random sentence, but to us, it holds a heavy weight.

It was the day I was supposed to leave. Sealand had dragged me out to the meadow, and we had lain back on the grass, watching the clouds puff back. I was getting ready to tell him the news, when I spotted a cloud that resembled a bunny. "Look into the sky, Sea," I told him, using the nickname I'd given him, "doesn't it look like a rabbit?" He smiled at me with the last real smile I would see from him.

He seems to remember, because he clutches me tighter, and I think he's trembling. I feel small tears land on my shoulder that's bare from the dress. "I missed you, sister," he says loud enough for everyone else to hear. I smile, knowing he's on my side now.

I break apart from him, studying his face. The make-up artists have done a number on him. His face was always fair and pale, but with heavy cosmetics, they made it almost look like he's a piece of coal himself. His face is smeared with dark paste in decorative swirls that reflect the light of the glowing outfit. But his face is stretched in a huge grin, his white teeth a stark contrast with the dark face-paint. He seems to take me in, trying to hide his surprise at my appearance. I guess I must look drastically different from when he last saw me.

"_On the roof,"_ I mouth to him before standing up. I immediately shrink back from the number of reporters and curious faces pressing up against us.

"Who is that boy?"

"Is that your brother?"

"How is he a contestant in the Games with you, when there is already a different male Tribute?"

"Is he from a different District?"

"That's illegal to change Districts!"

Suddenly, everyone is yelling and screaming at us, demanding answers. I try to look brave by hiding Sealand behind my back, but I'm trembling under the flowing fabric of the dress. Many faces are pressing in on us; a woman with a big chest and long, golden hair; a boy with long, black hair and hazel eyes; a man with brownish-gray hair and brown eyes. I can't concentrate on many faces, and I'm shaking with fear. No noise will come from my throat, and the mob around Sealand and me seem to be angered even more by that.

I'm on the verge of tears when Germany shoves his way through the crowd with a woman by his side. She had bright green eyes, and a scar across her left eye. They are both glaring at everyone, shutting them up with just their looks. "Back off," Germany barks. He takes a look at Sealand, knowing who he is. I've talked about him a lot before, so it's no surprise that he knows what's going on. "Yes, they are siblings, but Italy didn't run from District 12," Germany lies. "Her father had her in District 11, then ran to District 12 and had her brother. He then died in a mine explosion." With that simple fib, the whole crowd is subdued. They buy his story and meander off, no longer interested in the scandal surrounding me and Sealand. Germany turns to me, a gently frustrated look on his face. He almost looks surprised when he sees me, but it's quickly wiped from his expression. "When will you stop getting into trouble, Little Italy?" he jokes, petting me gently on the head.

I smile. "When I die." I mean it as a joke, but I had momentarily forgotten where we are. He gets a pained expression on his face, turning away from me.

"Well, let's hope you're in trouble for a long time to come," he whispers, hurt in his eyes.

"I-I was only joking—" I stutter, putting my arm on Germany's shoulder. He smiles at me, but it doesn't go anywhere near his eyes.

"Hey there," the woman with the scar greets me. "You must be Italy. I'm Portugal from District 9. It's nice to meet you." She holds her hand out, no expression on her solemn face.

She's dressed in a revealing outfit. Since District 9 specializes in power, her hair look like her finger was stuck in a light socket; it sticks up at ridiculous angles, and there are yellow highlights racing around her brown hair. Her startlingly green eyes only add to the effect. Her clothes look like they're made of lightning bolts, the golden fabric zigzagging up and down her toned body. There are strips of cloth covering her breasts and her bottom half, but the rest is open skin. I'm blushing just looking at her, and I cover Sealand's eyes with my hand.

"It's nice to meet you, too," I reply, shaking her hand. "And thank you for helping. That was kind of you."

"Don't mention it," she says, turning away and heading into the crowd towards her chariot.

"Are you all right?" Germany asks, looking me over. "No one hurt you, did they?" His eyes are full of worry.

"I'm fine," I laugh. "I found my brother." I pull Sealand in front of me, smiling widely. Sealand backs up into me, obviously scared by Germany. Honestly, there are few people who aren't terrified of him when they first meet him.

Germany bends down to look Sealand in the face. "This must be the infamous Sealand I've heard so much about." He ruffles Sealand's hair good-naturedly. To the others around us, it would look like Germany knows his way around children, and that he did it often. But it was obvious to me that he is uncomfortable touching my brother. I giggle a bit.

Before anyone can say anything else, a stylist that I recognize from the television, Cinna, rushes up to my brother, flanked by three ridiculously dressed, fat people. I also know them as Katniss's prep team. I guess it's an honor that my brother gets to be dressed by them, but I can't help but feel something close to dislike. They are, in a way, supporting the fact that my brother will die in the Arena.

Octavia, a plump, short woman, bustles up, grabbing Sealand by the shoulders. She seems to check the level of his make-up, to see if it needs touch-ups, then his hair, then his nails. After a few moments, she steps back, giving a satisfied nod. I'm right behind him the whole time; I don't know why, but I'm suddenly terrified that they're going to take my brother away again.

Germany must sense this, because he steps up behind me, putting his hand on my padded shoulder. "It's going to be all right, Little Italy. He's not going anywhere." He gives my arm a little squeeze, and I smile at him. I think his cheeks are a little red, but it could be a trick of the light, or just the fact that his stylists have gone a little nuts with the blush. And his hair. And his clothes.

He's dressed in a suit that looks to be of the same material as my dress, but it's not even a suit. It's more like a giant, one-shouldered sack. I can be blunt sometimes, and that's just what comes to mind. He resembles a photo I saw once, a long time ago, of a Jolly Green Giant. His face is covered in red blush, and his lips are painted a bright cherry that stands out even from his cheeks. His hair is slicked back, with little strands of wheat twined into his yellow locks. I take a second look, deciding that he doesn't look like a Green Giant; he looks like a golden god of wheat. I don't know why, but I feel my cheeks hearing up as I stare at him.

Without warning, he says, "We have to go now." I turn around to find that Sealand is being hauled away by Octavia and Cinna toward the District 12 chariot. I almost follow him, not willing to let one of the only people who matters in my life to walk away, but Germany holds me back. "We'll see him again. It's only a few hours until we get back to the hotel, right?"

I can tell he's trying to be comforting, but he's still not comfortable. Germany is the strong and silent type, not the kind of person to give words of consolation. I pat his hand, giving him a look and turning towards our own chariot. Our carriage has the number 11 emblazoned on its black side. The numbers look like they're fashioned out of strands of grain, coming to a point at the top after making a circle around the numbers. Germany pulls me up into the seat, catching me as I stumble over the hem of my dress. "Thanks," I mumble, straightening up.

Greece comes up to us, Germania and Lichtenstein trailing behind him. I notice something, though. Lichtenstein doesn't seem to have the same bounce in her step, and her face seems a little longer than it was. I don't pay it any mind though; I figure it might just be the fact that she's not going to see most of the people around her in about two weeks. This thought brings me down, until Germany takes my hand.

I look up at him in confusion and maybe something that resembles horror. No matter what the public sees, we are still two boys, and holding hands with another male sends the heat rushing up to my cheeks. He just grins down at me in a laughing way. "Greece just said that he wants us to hold hands," he explains. "Like Peeta and Katniss." I can tell that he's trying to take it easy on me. Normally, he would be talking to me sternly, his voice slightly raised. It's not that he yelled a lot or that's what he resorted to when things didn't go his way. It's just that Germany hates incompetent people; people who don't follow orders or don't listen the first time they're told something. I find myself in the second category a lot.

"Sorry," I apologize to Greece, bowing a little. It is something I picked up from my friends in District 11, a little sign of respect.

He smiles up at me, as does Lichtenstein. I think I see Germania's lips go up at the corners a bit. "No problem," the cat-man replies. He presses one furry claw to his ear, listening intently. I see for the first time that he has a plastic earpiece in his human ear. He looks up after a moment, smiling lazily at me. "Time to go". As soon as he says that, a giant door in front of me, at the head of the line, opens, pouring in artificial light from the Capitol lights. In the distance, I can hear the roar of cheering crowds. Somewhere inside, I feel a strong dislike, a feeling I am not used to. But the fact that so many people have gathered in one spot, in hopes of getting a glimpse of the kids they will get to see kill each other in a spectacular battle of bloodshed.

As the first chariot rolls out into the light, the roars grow louder as the crowd takes in their costumes. From the few glimpses I've seen of the District 1 Tributes, there's a very busty girl and a boy with bushy eyebrows. Both of them were dressed in the highest of Capitol fashion. In other words, they look ridiculous. Every inch of their body is gold, sparkling like some sort of plastic gem. The woman's shirt is too tight, and the boy's outfit is too tight as well, showing off every inch and crevice of his body. I get red just thinking about it.

"Get ready," Germany whispers in my ear, staring straight ahead. As the carriage lurches forward, I fall into the seat, the sudden movement startling me. Germany catches me, his face hard and emotionless for the cameras. I've only seen him like this six times before. Every Reaping, he would clam up, his fists clenched by his sides and his eyebrows dipped in the middle. I hate it every time he gets like this, so I've developed a technique that gets some feeling back into his expression. I take my hands and push my thumbs up at the corners of his mouth, making him smile in a weird way. He shakes me off, but I can't but notice that he's grinning a bit.

Our chariot makes it way out of the cavern, the horses clomping noisily. I blink as the light shines down on us. But what's even worse than Germany's stoic face is that the people are still screaming their throats out, excited that new faces are showing up to provide them entertainment. My cheeks flame up with anger, and I'm glad that it can be taken as embarrassment. I grip Germany's hand, giving it a little squeeze. He squeezes back.

I straighten up as the faces of the crowd around us come into view, and I almost giggle. Most of them look like they should be in a circus; girls with huge, puffy skirts that protrude from their waists and fall in pink or ivory waterfalls to their ankles; boys whose suits are weird stripes and zigzags of blue and a fluorescent color of green; more men who are dressed like the girls. And most of them have skin that looks like it's been dipped in pain of all different hues. And rows upon rows upon rows of seats are crammed with these people. I get the slight impression that some of the people might actually be clowns; I see one woman with her nose, _just_ her nose, bright red.

But I notice that half of the faces look incredibly bored. Figures, since they've already seen twenty other Tributes parading around. Besides, District 12 is probably going to get most of the attention, because of Katniss, Peeta, and Cinna. Although, I do see some boys ringed around the outside edge of the track blowing kisses and mockingly making seductive faces at me. It takes me a moment to figure out what they're doing, and when I do, I blush.

For a moment I'm tempted to tell them off, but for one, it would reflect badly onto Germany if his partner has temper issues, and two, by the time I look over again, they are blending into the crowd, avoiding my gaze at any cost. I glance over at Germany, and I can see why. He is furious for some reason, his glare directed at the boys in the crowd.

I can't think about this for too long, because the roar of cheering people becomes too loud to think straight. I look up at the giant screen that is proudly showcasing our faces, only to find the source of the commotion. My little Sealand is coming out of the cavern, his face almost glowing with smiles. Beside him, gripping his hand like Germany is mine is a woman of about 18 years. Her suit matches his, but her chest is large enough to distract all the boys from the splendor of their outfits. The boys' cat calls are even louder. This time, both Germany and I turn to glare at them. And, I may be wrong, but I think Sealand takes his turn intimidating them. I almost laugh.

In a few moments, we've paraded around the central square, my legs getting a little shaky from trying to stay standing in the rocking cart for so long. The bottom of my dress would normally be chaffing the back of my knees by now, but Greece must have made it out of a unique fabric. I barely feel it, even with the amount of moving that we're doing. I steal a quick glance at Germany; the trip around the block doesn't seem to have affected him much. His clothes are still orderly and unwrinkled, and his face seems calm and composed. But he's almost glaring at something in the distance.

I follow his gaze, only to find the three people who could really set him off. The first one, who isn't that much of a threat, is Caesar Flickerman. He's standing onstage, relishing the applause as if it's all for him. He reminds me strongly of France, how he throws kisses carelessly into the crowd. Standing beside him is Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker this year. He's a…chubby man, with a double-chin that can almost be seen. His thinning hair sits on his shining head like a toupee and looks kind of ridiculous. But the figure that strikes fear into my heart the most is the tall man in white standing on the other side of Plutarch.

President Snow.

His white hair is slicked back, almost like Germany's, but his doesn't give off a professional feel. I get more of an evil and snake-like feeling, which sets my skin to crawling. His clothes are simple and white, with barely-visible gray stripes running up and down the length of his body. His redder-than-they-should-be lips puff out of his face, nearly giving off the impression that he was once a demonic clown. Snow's cold, calculating eyes catch mine, and I shiver. His gaze is unsettling, because I get the impression that he will, whether I like it or not, discover my secret.

Germany puts his arm on mine, steadying me. It's just now that I realize that my legs are bent, and I'm leaning forward, almost collapsing. "Are you all right?" he asks me in his gruff voice. I nod, almost afraid to make a noise, as if President Snow will hear me. Germany must see my fright, because he helps me up and takes my hand again without another question.

"Ladies and gentlemen," President Snow announces into a microphone hidden in his lapel. The crowd immediately quiets, listening intently their leader's every syllable. "Citizens of Panem, I welcome you to the beginning of this year's Hunger Games!" The crowd roars again, and Snow only allows them a few moments to cheer before he raises his hand to silence them. "Years ago, the Districts of Panem were so foolish as to rebel against the Capitol…"

I tune out the annual recitation of the treaty of treason, the reason for the Hunger Games, and whatnot. Every year we've been forced to listen to the same speech, so most of us have it memorized. I almost do, and I would have it down, but Germany says that my attention span is too short for that.

Even though our past was a reality just earlier today (was it really just this morning?), I miss it dearly. How Germany and I would wake up every morning, get on work clothes, and head out into the fields; how Germany would stroke my head until I fell asleep; how I would swing from treetop to treetop, scaring Germany out of his wits every time I pretended to fall. I decide that, if I could just have one more wish granted before I die, that I would wish to see Germany smile a true smile one more time. There's nothing like it in the world, really. The way his eye crinkle around the edges, how his cheeks get just the tiniest bit red, how his blue eyes fill with happiness…

I'm torn from my fantasy by President Snow, who has finished the Treaty of Treason and is wishing everyone good luck in the Arena. "And may the odds," he starts, and I mouth the words with him as he hisses out, "be ever in your favor!"

With that, a giant, metal door screeches closed, engulfing all of the Tributes in darkness, separating us from the screaming crowd outside.


End file.
